The Silence Of Your Screams
by WeCanDanceUntilWeDie
Summary: When Blaine and Kurt are in an accident, Blaine doesn't make it. Kurt doesn't want to live anymore, so he's just simply stopped responding to everyone around him. He's stopped living, and without Blaine, he doesn't want to. Horribly depressing. TRIGGER WARNING.


**A/N- The end is a little choppy, depending on how you read it. I just figured that's the way it should have been given the style of writing I used. I also used far too many sedatives and arm restraints but shh. Just a warning.**

**TRIGGER WARNINGS for attempted suicide and cutting.**

They told him he was crazy. But maybe he just couldn't live without his boyfriend.

Quiet. That was all that filled the small, empty space.

_Tick, tock._

More silence. It grew and grew until it finally enveloped itself inside Kurt's brain and made its home there. Silence became all that he knew.

_Tick, tock._

He stared up at the ceiling. His eyes drifted to the crack in the middle. It branched out into smaller cracks as it made its way to the corner of the room.

"Kurt, you've got to eat something."

He ignored his father, continuing to stare at the ceiling. He stopped listening to them a long time ago.

"Come on, buddy." It came out thick, like he was trying to hold back tears.

_Why were there cracks in the ceiling?_

"Sweetheart, can you say something for me?" This voice was different. Gentler. Kinder. Harder to ignore because she sounded so sweet and undemanding.

He could vaguely feel someone gripping his hand tightly in their own.

Someone should really fix that crack.

"Oh, honey." A sharp intake of breath, and someone was crying next to him.

He continued to stare at the crack in the ceiling. His eyes memorizing every pattern, every little branch.

Doctors came in and out, checking his vitals, offering the same words as every day previous. More pillows? Painkiller? Water? Jello?

He never answered them.

He had more visitors.

"Kurt, we-," Rachel began. "We really miss you." She gulped, and then suddenly she was crying. Begging, pleading to him to just do something, _anything._

He continued to stare up at the ceiling.

He should do something because this was his best friend and he could never take it when she cried. Memories, rather rare occurrences, poked at his brain. Thoughts of _you are getting into that school_ and _I love you Rachel Berry_ and comforting hands on her back as he held her close because she didn't know what she was doing.

He couldn't bring himself to do anything.

Eventually, she left, her cheeks streaked with tears, mascara long gone from her eyes with traces of it scattered across her face and her voice clogged.

Finn came to visit.

"Hey, Kurt. I brought you a glass of warm milk." He paused. "Like old times." A small smile twitched on his lips, but it disintegrated into nothingness as Kurt didn't react. He never did anymore.

He sat in the chair beside the bed, the squeak of the leather echoing throughout the room. It was silent. He didn't know what to say and Kurt didn't want to listen.

He wondered why no one ever fixed the crack.

"Wake up, Hummel. I know you can hear me."

Silence.

"Fine, whatever. But you'd better start listening to the people that are only trying to help your ass get better."

_I don't want to get better._

"You need to stop this whole 'I can't go on without Blaine' crap. It's bullshit. You can manage damn well on your own. I watched you do it for 2 years."

Inside his head was filled with screams of agony and torture. Silent screams. Ripping through his head, etching into his brain until he couldn't hear anymore because it was so loud.

Santana was probably right. He could manage on his own. But then he met Blaine and everything changed. He wasn't independent anymore. No, he was completely dependent on this one being, this one soul that was no longer. He wasn't even a whole person, not now. Not with Blaine gone. He was just a half of a person. A broken, fractured, scarred half of a person that didn't know how to live. So he didn't.

He couldn't handle not being able to see Blaine's beautiful face every day, or the way his nose would crinkle when he laughed, or how it felt to have his strong arms wrapped securely around his waist. How he would react every time he ran his hands through Blaine's hair, too wrapped up in _them_ to even remember that he wore hair gel in the first place. He would just giggle and then Blaine would smear it on his nose, smiling brightly as he pressed his lips against Kurt's once more. It was all of the little things that Kurt couldn't live without, like how every night before bed, he would get a glass of water and put it on their night table in case one of them woke up coughing, or how he could go on and on about the things he loved and get so caught up in the conversation that they would be up until 1 in the morning, or how his nose would wrinkle in disgust whenever he saw broccoli because he_ hated_ broccoli. Just_ being_ with Blaine in every way imaginable. It was the little things that kept Kurt going. The little moments are the stepping stones of his life, and without them, he has nothing. It seems pretty silly to everyone else, but to Kurt, it's everything. It's what makes them _KurtandBlaine, _and Kurt feels empty and hollow inside when he's not holding Blaine's hand or wrapped up in his arms like he has been every night since they got to New York and to know that it's all done? Just like that? It breaks Kurt's heart and he doesn't want to live anymore because yes, they got in so many stupid little fights and they would storm out and scream at each other but he would rather have that then have nothing. And knowing that they spent time and energy and fighting on something as _petty_ as thinking that one of them _cheated_ when they could have spent the time loving each other and kissing and _being_ together? It breaks Kurt's _soul _because their days were limited and Kurt wishes he can take it all back and change it but he _can't,_ he can't, and he's left with nothing but things he should have do_ne. _

He can't make all of the pain go away quickly, like he's thought about doing so many times, though, because he doesn't believe in Heaven and knowing that everything, every memory, every tear, every piece of evidence that they were here is just going to be gone? Somehow that hurts even more.

He stared at the ceiling and eventually, she left. After yelling at him to _wake the fuck up because they all needed him and everyone was a mess._

Well, maybe people just needed to realize that he was a mess too.

The months ticked by, each second pure agony and just one more grain of sand in the hourglass of a life that he didn't want to live. How had his managed to get so tipped over?

People came into his room every day. Doctors with their daily tasks, friends, family. He didn't pay attention anymore. It didn't really matter.

Lots of people visited. Mercedes, telling him to listen to her and listen well. Rachel, crying and pleading that she couldn't do this without him. Brittany, asking why her unicorn wasn't magical anymore. His father, yelling into the air, screaming at him to wake up. Carole, holding his hand and needing her other little boy to just be alright. Finn.

"Kurt, I know it's hard right now, but you'll get over it eventually-"

A scream. An ear piercing one, ripped from his throat as it crawled out his lips. Monitors beeping quickly, loudly, unsteady. Doctors rushing in as Finn was being shoved out of the room. A needle being shoved into his arm to sedate him because he wouldn't stop screaming and thrashing.

They told him to do something, didn't they?

He grew restless. The memories were coming, fast and blurred together. Dark, and red, and scary. Screaming. Blood. Lots of blood. Blaine's near-lifeless body on the ground next to his, his heartbeat so faint that he might not even make it to the hospital. Sirens. Loud and screeching and bright. Cries of agony as they lifted him onto the gurney. Thrashing and kicking and screaming because _Blaine isn't moving why isn't he moving_ and _help my boyfriend I need my boyfriend_. Tears, hot and wet and slick, sliding down his face, turning pink as they mixed with the clumps of blood on his face. Arms being strapped down because he wouldn't sit still and _where is Blaine_. Screams of torment as they loaded him into the ambulance and away from the lifeless body on the ground. A needle, sharp and rough, being shoved into him. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was red, deep and raw and everywhere. Blaine was covered in it. He screamed again.

When he woke up, they wouldn't tell him anything. He would cry and scream and beg because _where is Blaine I need my boyfriend please just tell me where he is._

So they told him.

Blaine didn't make it.

And then sobbing and screams of anguish ripped from his insides as they crawled out his throat and into the air and _I need Blaine._

They tried to soothe him and tell him that it would be okay but the doctors had to strap him down to the bed because he was thrashing and kicking and he would re-break one of his ribs if he didn't stop.

But he could still scream.

So he screamed until his throat was raw and bloody and no more sounds could escape from his lips.

He was crying. Hard, real, and raw. The hot drops fell from his eyes and ran down his face, soaking into his shirt. For hours, he sobbed and the tears didn't want to stop. He hadn't cried at all, hadn't done anything after that first week. He lay on the bed, lifeless, staring at that damn crack in the ceiling. He was numb, unfeeling. He stopped screaming and thrashing and fighting. It was just easier that way. They force fed him through tubes because he refused to eat or even acknowledge their presence. But now it was all coming out and it hit him hard and he was sobbing into his room and it was no longer silent. It was loud, and antagonizing and heartbreaking. His cries filled the room, eventually accompanied by his screams because no, he wouldn't get over it. This was Blaine. _His _Blaine. His sweet, precious Blaine who was now gone forever. Just a whisper in the wind, a memory. But Kurt would never get over it. He didn't know how to live without him, and to be honest, he didn't want to.

The doctors had to come in and sedate him again because he could scream forever if they'd let him. Weren't his screams better than his silence?

As Kurt stared up at the ceiling, voice hoarse from screaming and eyes tired from crying, he wondered if dying was an option.

_Tick, tock._

Maybe he would close his eyes and they would never see the world again.

_Tick, tock._

His eyes shifted from the ceiling to the door.

No one was around. He could do it, maybe.

If he had the guts.

_Tick, tock._

It was too quiet.

The silence was deafening in the small room, suffocating. It was closing in on him and he couldn't breathe.

_Tick, tock._

Flashes of red danced in his vision, taunting and tormenting.

A scream, torn from his insides, crawling up his throat, demanding to be heard.

Why didn't they understand that he just didn't want to live anymore? He didn't want to get better, he didn't want to talk, he didn't want help.

He wanted to scream. Scream for as long as his voice would allow him, until his throat was torn up inside. He wanted to scream forever, until nothing else mattered and nothing was on his mind but tearing the noise from inside of him.

He was done with the silence. It hurt. It allowed too much emptiness around him for memories to intrude and blood to become everything he knew.

He wanted people to feel his pain. He wanted people to hurt, like he was hurting.

_Oh god, he was hurting._

Maybe if he never stopped screaming then they would realize that.

And they did.

Eventually.

It took months of him screaming for hours on end and sobbing and nightmares and thrashing and _I can't live without Blaine I can't _for them to realize that he would never be alright. Not really.

So they sent him to the Lima Memorial Mental Institution.

They told him they would help him get better.

He just started laughing hysterically and no one could figure out why.

On the first day, he wouldn't stop laughing.

Nothing was funny.

On the second day, he woke up screaming from his nightmares.

They had to sedate him because he wouldn't stop.

By the first week, he learned that he could use the corner of his dresser to cut himself.

After an hour, the corner of the dresser was beginning to round, the floor was slick with blood, and he had the name "Blaine" cut into his arm.

The next day his dresser was removed and he was sent to a psychiatrist.

He didn't say anything.

By the end of the second week, the words on his arm were beginning to heal.

But then he learned that he could use the edge of the windowsill to carve the words "I want to die" into his other arm.

That night, he was put on suicide watch.

The next day he was sent to that same psychiatrist. He asked him why he wrote those words.

He said it was because he wants to die.

He was placed in a room with no sharp objects and was put on 48 hour watch.

At the end of the first month, Rachel came to visit.

The doctors told her it was okay for her to bring him a book because he hadn't hurt himself in 13 days, and really, how much damage could a book do?

They underestimated Kurt, though.

That night, the pages were torn out of the book and ripped across his arm. They littered the floor, splashed with blood.

When the nurse came in, he was admiring the little marks on his arm.

Later that night, he had restraints put on his arms so he couldn't hurt himself again.

By the end of his sixth week, he was allowed to go back to a normal room and eat with the other patients because he hadn't hurt himself or shown any signs of suicidal thoughts or behavior in 14 days.

They made the small mistake of having plastic spoons at lunch.

Kurt Hummel lasted exactly 41 days at Lima Memorial Mental Institution before he committed suicide.

The thought of living without him became too much to bear, and Kurt took the easy way out because it was all too _much _and there were voices in his head and he needed to make it all_ stop._

The nurse came in and found him dead on the floor, next to a puddle of blood, the plastic spoon broken in half with the base covered in clumps blood still clutched in his hand

On his arm, underneath the words "I want to die", in jagged, broken, crimson lines, it read "Told You."


End file.
